How the ABC came about - a quick one-shot
by TeslaTiger
Summary: How did the Great Student Revolutionaries first meet? How did Gavroche end up in an elephant? A little artistic licence, and a little bit Filmish, but it's based on the book. T for violence. If you don't like it, don't read it.


**A quick idea of how the Amis came about**

******I feel obliged to admit that though I have spent quite a while on this, I don't think it's particularly good, mainly because I tried to write it in Victor Hugo style, which unfortunately isn't _my_ writing style, so I may have slipped a bit. Also, some of it is direct quotes from the Brick, namely the bit about Grantaire knowing the best place for everything. But I digress, and here it is:**

Grantaire was a cynic. He revelled in his negativity, taking every possible opportunity to rub others' faces in it every time he was right and things went wrong. Suffice to say, Grantaire didn't have many friends. He wasn't a particularly bad person, but he'd not had the most enjoyable (or long-lasting) of childhoods, leaving him a staunch pessimist who saw the downside to everything from law and justice to peace and prosperity. _How can there be a downside to peace? _people had asked him, but then he reminded them that in times of peace there was much more other crime, as the men had no military to pay their bills, so many resorted to stealing to do so. He was studying painting and art history in the University of Paris when he was attacked. Though friends he had few, people were fascinated by the man who believed in nothing but that which came from a bottle. He stood not as tall as many, though few dared tease him for his by no means short stature, he was of an average build, broad-shouldered, not overly intimidating in that manner, though it was quite clear that he was an ample boxer, but with the supple, lithe limbs of a gymnast and dancer; though he was often in need of a partner as fascination and infatuation were a great deal different, and few could overlook the great crooked nose, the obviously abuse-caused scars, the eyes that always seemed to see all and nothing at once, so bright by intelligence yet dull from drink and history. In short, he was the ugliest man in Paris, despite being born with his father's good looks; time had ruined the once-handsome face, despite being as yet unable to refer to himself as one-and-thirty. Despite being from the South of France, he knew Paris like the back of his delicate hand, knowing that the best coffee was to be had at the Café Lemblin, the best billiards at Café Voltaire, that good cakes and lasses were to be found at the Ermitage, on the Boulevard du Maine, spatchcocked chickens at Mother Sauget's, excellent matelotes at the Barriere de la Cunette, and a certain thin white wine at the Barriere du Com pat. He had in fact stumbled across a certain Café; the Musain, when he'd been out in the rain, waving mildly at his acquaintance, a certain Courfeyrac, who was well known about the city as the most jolly and inviting man around, before noticing the rain had stopped, finishing his coffee (for he was to have a class later and could not afford to indulge in his vice of forgetting through drink for fear of losing his position) and running as fast as he could go back to catch his lesson.

Several days past before he met dear Courfeyrac again (sometimes jokingly referred to as 'Courfeyrac de Courfeyrac' as he refused to tell them whether it was his first or last name, prompting some to mockingly assume it was both, explaining why he would not clear the matter up), this time at school, with Courfeyrac inviting the man over to sit with him and some of his friends, namely the infamous Enjolras and the generally well-known medic and philosopher Combeferre. Sat with them also was a nervous young man with longish dirty blond hair, the widest blue eyes Grantaire had ever seen in a young man, rather oddly dressed with a purple cravat, not tied quite right, his collar slightly ruffled with a bright (and in Grantaire's private opinion, rather hideous) brocade waistcoat, evidently expensive. Tucked in the buttonhole of the also-expensive-looking coat were a pretty collection of flowers, what looked to be bluebells, though the idea seemed ridiculous due to the time of year, it was approaching November and snow was already beginning to fall, leaving Grantaire at a loss. Courfeyrac smilingly offered Grantaire a chair between himself and the young man (who looked so young as to almost be a boy, surely not yet one-and-twenty) though he noticed the man's awkward disapproval of this position, as it cut him off almost completely from his other friends, prompting the ever-perceptive cynic to move his chair around enough that he would not be left out. "Thank you." He mumbled softly, before adding, "I'm Jean Prouvaire. But most people call me Jehan or Prouvaire, or a shortening if you'd rather. A pleasure to meet you Monsieur…?"

"Grantaire." He supplied shortly, though he obliged him with one of his rarely-seen sober smiles, realising just how unsure of himself the man –Prouvaire- seemed to be. "I've not seen you about before." He prompted, though he needn't have as their ever-jolly companion supplied all of the information that they might need to keep conversation, as the other two seemed impatient to speak with their introducer, physically dragging him away as soon as he had completed his piece. "Where are you from?" Prouvaire blurted, his face still taut with nervousness, though Grantaire was beginning to pick up on his general amiableness through the mask. "The South. You must relax, Monsieur Prouvaire. You are too nervous. I don't bite, I swear." He placed his hand mockingly over his heart as the poet began to play with his flowers, twirling them through delicate fingers with a practised ease. "I am trying, Monsieur Grantaire, but I am not often acquainted with new people; I have a rather unfortunate tendency to avoid new people, much to the irritation of my parents!" He chuckled softly, joined by Grantaire who indulged him, thus melting the ice between them, though Grantaire was still very guarded towards the jovial though shy young gentleman right up until the moment he left, bidding his adieu and then fleeing.

It was the evening of the self-same day that hail began tipping down on the beautiful capital, catching the unfortunate drunkard unawares, forcing him to be pounded as his squinted optics battled to keep out the painful lumps of ice from his delicate eyes. He almost missed it as he dodged and zig-zagged down some street or other, mistakenly taking the wrong turn-off in his confusion, all of the cobbled-streets appearing the same to him in his pained brain. He stopped dead when he heard it, the cries, begging for help. He knew, even in the appalling conditions, that that area of Paris was avoided at all costs by those who were not required to be there, namely, Grantaire himself, having never attended and thus making it a rarity. But somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew those cries. He turned towards them and ran, hail pelting his hide harder than ever until dark shadowy shapes appeared through the curtains of sleet. "Please!" Grantaire considered forming a plan of attack before he ran into the fray, but it became unnecessary as he felt a harsh, unforgiving hand curl itself into his collar, lifting the hefty man clean off the ground before throwing him into the very person he had heard calling out. Courfeyrac stared at him in shock for a moment, before they scrambled upright and in front of the shaking Prouvaire, defiant in his fear, his lip quivered, his eyes in terror, but his posture clear. He would not give in. "Prouvaire, Courfeyrac. What a surprise. What are you doing down here at this time of night? It's full of criminals, you know." One of them punched him in the face, so hard he felt like a white-hot dagger had cut his face, but he rolled with the blow and somehow, he remained conscious. "Is that… is that… is that all you've got?" They hit him again and again, sometimes with fists, sometimes with batons, until all sensation was lost to him. But with each strike, he could hear Courfeyrac screaming his name, Prouvaire screaming at them to stop, that couldn't they see they were killing him?

Grantaire awoke to find himself bound to a chair, unable to see through one eye which was sealed shut with blood and swelling. "Grantaire? Thank God you are alright! You wouldn't move and you barely had a pulse… we were worried." Courfeyrac's dark curls bounced into view, he was bound also to a chair, just across from him.

"I am well, dear Courfeyrac. Where is Prouvaire?" A soft squeak from the floor, and the blond sat up into view.

"Present. I don't believe they are fond of us." Prouvaire attempted to heave himself up, but fell.

"Rest yourself, Jehan. They clearly want something, and they believe one of us has it. They won't kill us until they have it, so we have a little time." Prouvaire nodded, resting his warm head against Grantaire's painful ankle, he presumed it must have been from when he fell, comforting beneath the pain. Eventually, the man managed to force himself to his knees, before collapsing once more against Grantaire, who was calmly working his way through his bonds with a pen-knife and a churlish grin. He flicked his rubbed-raw right wrist, cutting the final strands and freeing himself with little effort as he bent down to release his feet, numb without their full circulation. Common criminals, then, not high-class skilled ones.

"My dear Courfeyrac," Grantaire joked as he staggered over. "you look most uncomfortable upon your thorny throne. Let us change that…" he freed his friend, leaning heavily on one another to return to where Prouvaire lay, now on his knees and panting hard as his body swayed, as though to some music that only he could hear. He looked up at them with wide, unfocused eyes and murmured something neither gentleman could make out. "They hit me on the head, and now I cannot see straight." He repeated weakly, his voice thick through unshed tears and trickling blood. Grantaire managed to slip one surprisingly strong arm under Prouvaire, gently lifting him to his feet as Courfeyrac slipped another arm around his waist, so that they were both supporting his weight. "Gentlemen, I believe we have overstayed our welcome, let us be gone!" Grantaire declared dramatically, just as one of their captors entered. Grantaire did not even look at him as he slipped his arm from Prouvaire, careful to make sure Courfeyrac could bear his weight before he dropped into a fighting stance, taking one swift kick across the man's face before he could even flinch, winding him and leaving him breathless, unable to shout, before ramming his fist with as much power as he could muster, a not inconsiderable amount, despite their incarceration, directly into the man's face. He dropped unconscious to the floor with barely a sound bar the soft slap of knuckles against his cheek, and the gentle crack as his nose broke, blood pouring down his face as Grantaire carefully positioned him so that he would not drown in his own blood before returning to his position by Prouvaire and relieving Courfeyrac of half of the young man's almost insignificant weight.

"How, gentlemen, do you presume we get out?" Grantaire enquired in a rather bored manner as they came to yet another dead end. Courfeyrac decided to relinquish the lead, allowing Grantaire and his great crooked nose to smell their way out, scenting the path with air that smelled the least musty, as one might in caves, and following it out into the night. "Gracious, I wonder what time it is?" Courfeyrac exclaimed as they noted the beginning rays of sunlight flicker and force their way down through the dark, heavy cloud. It was Grantaire who led them straight through to the nearest police station, and Grantaire who made the report as Prouvaire and Courfeyrac were checked over by a local doctor, who pronounced that the former had a minor concussion which would be best done by with bed rest for a few days, the latter simply dazed and in shock. The doctor, whose name Grantaire never bothered to catch, pronounced him thusly as Courfeyrac, hinting that he ought to have his sealed eye seen to, though the cynic studiously ignored him until he was left alone with his companions. "That was, as I believe the English say, a close shave." Prouvaire, hysterical with adrenaline, burst out laughing at his new friend's joke, to be joined by Courfeyrac. "Well at least you are alright now. And to think, we rushed down here in frenzy because we thought you were hurt!" Enjolras and Combeferre stood, shoulder-to-shoulder at the door, faces taught, optics nervously scanning the almost empty room the three had been abandoned in when the police had gone out to see if their captors remained in their hide-out, yet to return.

"Combeferre, excellent. Would you take a look at Grantaire's eye for me? The other doctor recommended he get it seen to, but knowing him as I do, I doubt he will unless someone makes him, and now appears to be the ideal time." Combeferre obliged, silently cleaning the wound and checking it. Eventually, Grantaire flickered it open on command, to be looked in by the medic who pronounced, clearly relieved, that the swelling would go down in a few days' time, and that his eyes was fine beneath it. "All is well, Grantaire." He murmured quietly as he moved over to Prouvaire, muttering soft curses about the previous doctor's incompetence as he cleaned and bound his head wound, though he too prescribed bed rest for him; once he found himself done with the youngest, he moved onto Courfeyrac, though he agreed with the doctor entirely on his diagnoses of him, recommending a glass of something alcoholic for his tattered nerves, and a good night's sleep for his shaken spirits. With that, they took their leave of the station, leaving Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre's address if they were required to testify. Within an hour, they were seated together at a table in the backroom of the Café Musain, nattering vague niceties over a bottle of wine, indeed, three would be more accurate, one for Jehan -who had requested he be referred to thusly- and Combeferre to share, one for Courfeyrac and Enjolras to share, and one for Grantaire alone, for he rarely shared his liquors, even if it were only a bottle of wine.

"I do believe that those rather abhorrent fellows will never reach prison. The police will not find them, and even if they do, we can prove nothing. They will get away with it." Jehan turned to stare in shock at the cynic, who was mildly observing his dirty, cracked nails. "For shame, how shall I explain this to my professor?" he waggled his fingers expertly under Enjolras's nose, removing them just before the young man snapped at them out of irritation. "What, Jehan?" he enquired boldly as he noticed that the young man was still staring at him. "Ah, yes, you seem to believe the entirety of the police force competent. The only truly competent one I have ever heard of his Inspector Javert, and he does not reside in the station in which we reported the crime. No, I very much doubt it will even go to court. Though I appreciate your innocent naivety, it is reassuring to know that there is still purity and beauty to be found in the world, even if some of us cannot see it." The others were shocked into silence for several minutes before Courfeyrac, slowly regaining his spirits, declared that he had grown rather fond of that particular back room, and that he would like to spend more time there, though preferably under rather more jolly circumstances. Enjolras looked both furious and pensive as Courfeyrac took it upon himself to teach Jehan and Combeferre to dance, much to both his and the cynic's amusement.

"Enjolras, are you well? You look pale." Enjolras turned to the cynic in surprise; he'd forgotten he was there.

"Quite. I was simply thinking. Other people would surely have seen the incident, yes? Other people have most likely experienced it, but they could not report it. Most people cannot read nor write, and those that are uneducated are looked down on by those that represent the law. They are afraid, afraid of what will happen if they stand up for themselves. Afraid of what will happen if they're children get to learn to read and write, what will happen to them? The government will not be pleased. The people should not be afraid. Not of those that are meant to protect them." Not even Grantaire the Silver-tongued had a response to that, and they sat silently until Jehan declared he was dizzy, and Combeferre fussed that he shouldn't be up and about with a concussion. They travelled in procession to take Jehan home, and stayed there for the rest of the day, mostly spent chattering, and, in Enjolras and Grantaire's case, arguing; and the night. The next morning, Enjolras had made up his mind.

The next week was the first meeting of the 'ABC' Society, and soon, their little group had grown into an almost revolutionary type meeting, their theories bending and twisting, growing like ivy around the tree that was the student idealism of a world without inequality. Soon, they had little gamins visiting regularly. One in particular, a lad by the name of Gavroche, grew on them all for his cheerful, happy-go-lucky persona never failed to cheer the occasionally downhearted students. He and his 'boys' regularly scrimped meals out of the scraps that the students left for them, knowing that charity was not their style, but free food was. Courfeyrac and Grantaire between them paid for a proper meal for them at least once a fortnight to make sure that they didn't get dangerously thin, though the boys always seemed painfully skinny, with a lightness of flesh and prominent bones that worried even poetic Jehan, who spent little time with them. It simply fuelled Enjolras further, determined that they should be the last generation of children who struggled to feed themselves on a regular basis, and didn't seem to wash except when it rained. It was Grantaire who patiently taught them to draw and paint, incredibly proud when he discovered Gavroche's natural talent at it, proudly displaying the boy's work on the wall of the back room, which they practically owned, they spent so much time there in dribs and drabs as well as at meetings. It was Courfeyrac and Combeferre that took it upon themselves to teach the children to read, though it was Jehan who steadily taught them to write, getting them to copy out pretty poems, and occasionally write their own, which were generally far less pretty.

Slowly but surely, the children grew thinner and more ill, often arriving littered with bruises that Combeferre and Joly, another medical student that had joined with his friend Bossuet in the very first meeting, always ended up treating. "Gavroche, I need you to tell me, who is doing this to you?" behind the stiff lip and the rigid posture were tears waiting to fall from optics, frantically searching for an escape from the conversation. "Gavvie, please." Gavroche froze for nought but a moment before throwing himself into Grantaire's embrace, sobbingly explaining that it was his father and his gang that had harmed his boys, calling them all worthless swines and drains on the economy. "Montparnasse just stood there!" he finished through his heavy tears; curling up into a little ball on Grantaire's lap, he tried to calm himself enough to fully explain. "Have you considered leaving home, Gavroche? You know we would all be happy to take you and your friends." Gavroche brightened a bit, before making a clear decision. Uncoiling himself from Grantaire's lap, he summoned his boys, three of which were actually girls, not that they minded, and took off into the night. The next day, the boys trotted smugly into the Musain, heads held high like a proud Cocker Spaniel. They told him they'd found that Napoleon's Elephant was hollow, and now inhabited where previously it had been free. The children never had problems from Patron-Minette again, though from time to time, Gavroche alone did, much to the anger of the Amis who had grown to adore him. Then one day Bossuet brought a young man with a face Gavroche knew into the Musain, having him seen him at the Gorbeau Tenement, the home of his family, before. His name, if Gavroche remembered rightly, was Pontmercy. Marius Pontmercy.

**THE END **

**(After this you can pretty much pick it up from the Brick)**


End file.
